


On Death and Dying

by BronzedViolets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Bottom!Lock, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dark, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gruesome Scenes, Horror, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Novella, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Transcripts courtesy of Ariane Devere, Uni!lock, Vamp!lock, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, homophobic language - not used by the primary characters, only for one chapter though, technically grad student!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6681178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BronzedViolets/pseuds/BronzedViolets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When Sherlock Holmes was 23 years old, he carefully drew a 38% solution of death into a syringe, and with shaking hands injected it into his bloodstream.</p><p>When he was 31 years old, he drew 11 millilitres of blood the colour of black tar heroin into a syringe and injected himself with death.”</p><p>Sherlock Holmes dies on a cold day in November and two lives are thrown into chaos - Mycroft’s, and John’s. But not even death can stop Sherlock from protecting those he cares about.  The real challenge begins when the late detective discovers that he must learn to do so in a body whose needs can no longer be ignored.  This story takes a multilayered look at what happens to the three men when they confront the darkness within and the lies they tell themselves. These hard earned truths soften a man with a heart of ice, teach a soldier that his true value is more than his fists and rage, and show a self proclaimed sociopath just how far he will go for love…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Pride Before a Fall

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thanks to my betas SuperBlue and Friendofalfonso
> 
> Also please keep an eye on the rating. I anticipate that it will go up to Explicit at some point.
> 
> Find me on the tumbles @ bronzedviolets.tumblr.com
> 
> As always I do not own Sherlock, ANY iteration of Sherlock, human or otherwise.
> 
> Source image for cover courtesy of happykanppy at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
> 
> Satellite view of St Bartholomew's Hospital courtesy of Google Maps

## London, November 20th, 2011

 

### Roof of the City & Guilds Building

Lidiya Vanzina, born in Russia and raised in good ol’ Sedalia, Missouri, adjusted the  scope of her rifle. From her vantage point on top of the City & Guilds building, she had a clear view down onto the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. Despite the chill wind she was dressed only in a worn grey jumpsuit, her blonde hair tucked under a knit watch cap. It seemed to her that she had been cold for years, but the grey blended in with the asphalt of the roof and it would not do to be spotted this close to the end of the game. Her employer had little tolerance for failure.

Despite the high stakes, as the targets moved into view she could not help but feel a frisson of excitement in her bones. Since her abrupt departure from the CIA to join the ranks of the _Agarrás_ , this was by far the most interesting job she had been assigned. She checked the wind speed again and waited for the command from _паук,_ the spider.

 

### Roof of St. Bart’s

As an ashen sky hung low over London, two men faced off across the grim expanse of roof, a cold breeze whipping through their hair and tugging at coats.

The city at his back, Sherlock looked across the asphalt at his so called nemesis and started to chuckle, mirth rising effervescent in his veins.

“You’re not going to do it. The killers _can_ be called off – there’s a recall code, or a word, or a number.”

He was so relieved he could have wept. All of the plotting, Mycroft’s twelve contingencies and his thirteenth Hail Mary plan had all been unnecessary. Everything he needed was right here on the roof with him. He stalked towards Moriarty with a predator’s smile. “I don’t have to die... if I’ve got you.”

Moriarty barked out a surprised laugh. “Oh! You think you can _make_ me stop the order? You think _you_ can make me do that?”

Sherlock continued his slow advance towards his foe before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Yes, and so do you...” He was close enough that he could smell Moriarty’s expensive aftershave, the cloying fragrance evoking the ghosts of chlorine and terror.

“Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty replied, voice dripping with pity. “Your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.” In the late afternoon gloom his eyes were as dark as flint and, despite the tone of his voice, completely devoid of compassion.

Sherlock fought the animal urge to recoil and leaned even closer still, using his full height to crowd the smaller man.  

“Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.” He injected as much menace into his voice as he could, waiting for Moriarty to rise to the bait.

Moriarty shook his head slowly in a pantomime of disbelief. “Naah. You _talk_ big. Naah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary – you’re on the side of the angels.”

_Check and mate._

Sherlock went in for the proverbial kill. “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.” Sherlock let that pronouncement hang over them for a second, savouring his victory. _Mycroft would be livid that he hadn’t needed his help after all._

Moriarty nodded solemnly and lowered his gaze. “I see. As long as you’re alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out, I’m impressed. Well, good luck with that.” His face split into a mad fox grin as he pulled a pistol out of his waistband, raising it with the speed of a conjurer.  

In the second before the conflagration, Sherlock was able to catch in his mind’s eye one last glimpse of John’s careworn face illuminated from within by the warmth of a shared moment…and then...there was smoke, the iron tang of blood and the taste of cordite before a gathering darkness swept it all away.

 

### Diogenes Club

The Iceman sat in his unofficial office at the Diogenes club sipping a 1989 Old Pulteney single malt out of a 150 year old Waterford Crystal tumbler. On the desk rested a well thumbed blackberry as well as a sleek, rarely used personal mobile. Both devices were equidistant from the edge of the table, crisp 90 degree angles as precise as though a ruler was used. If you were a person of uncommon perceptiveness you might note the slight tensing of his jaw or the tightening of the skin around his eyes. If you weren't, all you would see was a man completely calm and in control, breathing in a steady metronome. In and out. In and out. The rhythm only broken by occasional measured sips of the amber liquid.

At exactly 14:27 the blackberry began to buzz. If our uncommon observer was still there and chose to turn their eye one final time towards Mr Mycroft Holmes, they would have noticed his hand make an aborted movement towards the still silent personal mobile, the tiniest catch of breath sticking in his aristocratic throat. At 14:28 the landline began to ring and Mr Holmes stood up slowly and answered. After a few murmured repetitions of “I understand,” he carefully replaced the receiver on the cradle. Mr Holmes took a moment to carefully smooth out the fine fabric of his suit jacket, raising the Waterford in parody of a toast before turning around and pitching it full force through the window - a shattering of precious things.

 

### St. Bart’s

From the moment his perplexed landlady revealed that Sherlock must have had an ulterior motive for keeping him away from the Bart’s lab, John Watson had been fighting a clawing terror that something was very, very wrong.    
  
The 25 minute cab ride from Baker Street back to the hospital had been an exercise in torture. When the cab finally pulled up in front of the Smithfield Ambulance Station across the street from the Pathology Department entrance, John was growing frantic. Tossing the cabbie a handful of notes, he threw himself out of the cab, banging his shin painfully on the door as he did.  
  
Momentarily distracted by the pain in his leg, he almost missed it when his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He could barely extricate it in time his hands were shaking so hard with excess adrenalin.  
  
John’s breath punched out of him in a sigh of relief -  the call display showed it was Sherlock calling.

He hit ‘accept call’, words of admonition already rising on his tongue when the caller interrupted him, their sing-song cadence freezing John’s blood in his veins.  
  
“Miss me?”  
  
It was Moriarty. John’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and for a moment he was struck dumb, paralyzed with animal panic before he found his voice.

“Listen to me you son of a bitch, if you have hurt him I will -”

“Oh Johnny boy, I am sorry to be the one to tell you this but...that ship has already sailed. You see I told Sherlock that I owed him a fall, and a businessman of my calibre always keeps his promises. Moran - a little assistance por favor? Johnny boy? You might want to look up - right - about - now.”

John looked up, his gaze flicking from rooftop to rooftop when a dark shadow at the top of St. Barts drew his eyes.

He could see what looked like two men on the roof, one trim, the other powerfully built in a military looking coat. The larger man was hoisting a bundle of something over the lip of the roof’s edge. Something dark and...

John could feel his heart stutter and skip a beat inside his chest. He watched, frozen in horror, as the limp form resolved itself into Sherlock, tumbling head over heels, down and down, Belstaff fluttering as he vanished from view behind the  ambulance station.

The thud of the impact was muffled by distance but John still felt the crunch through his own chest like a fist. Bile rose hot in his mouth as he stumbled across the street, narrowly missing a cyclist.

When he came around the corner, he stopped dead, unable to reconcile what he was seeing with what he had expected. Sherlock had landed on a large blue cushion, the kind he assumed people used in the movies to film stunt falls. This had come far too late to have been any help though.  There was a small hole the size of a 10 pence centred perfectly through his throat. He had been shot with a small calibre pistol at close range, trachea shattered and voice silenced for ever.

There was a group of people barking orders into mobile phones while another group looked on in shock or wept quietly. A woman, whom he would have sworn was Anthea, came running by, gun drawn, past him and off down the street. The red soles of her Louboutins flashing a disjointed SOS.

No one tried to stop him when he scrambled awkwardly onto the cushion to make his way over to his fallen friend.

He sat there for a long time, holding Sherlock in his arms for the first and last time. He sat there until he felt the body cool and the blood dry.

He would not let go when the paramedic draped a furiously orange blanket over his shoulders and tried to lead him away. He kept holding him, until he felt the sting of a needle sliding into his hand and everything went dark.  

 


	2. The Bird in Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, the trigger warnings for violence, drug use/abuse and homophobic language come into play here.
> 
> Source image courtesy of Keith Edkins, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License

## Hampstead, February 22nd, 1996

Mycroft smoothed his brother’s sweaty curls back from his forehead. Sherlock’s skin was clammy and his lips had taken on a distinct bluish hue. He fervently hoped the ambulance was almost there.

As he fought back tears, he could feel an icy rage rising inside him. He knew _exactly_ why this had happened. Their bloody liberal minded parents had always been overly lenient with the children - and look where it got them? Ford was in Florida serving a life sentence for armed robbery, and Sherlock had overdosed on God knows what before he could even finish sixth form.

As the sirens neared, Mycroft vowed to himself that no matter the cost _he would not_ lose another brother.

## Cambridge University, March 8th, 2001

Sherlock woke up in his tiny bedsit, still fully dressed. His head was pounding and his mouth was painfully dry. A small smudged hand mirror was propped up on the end table, endlessly reflecting walls the colour of dirty ice.

As he was in graduate school, he had the privilege of living off campus and all of the attendant pleasures. Unfortunately, since his falling out with Victor Trevor, it was not the bohemian paradise he had envisioned.  

He glanced at the clock and muttered a curse under his breath. It was past noon and he had _hours_ of work to do. He was meeting a potential supervisor the next day to discuss his proposed thesis and he _needed_ to be ready.  He’d already scared off three prospective supervisors and he could ill afford to lose this one. He knew he had a reputation as being difficult to work with, but he was certain that Professor Von Chasson was smart enough to see past such trivialities.

Sherlock fumbled inside the end table for his Morocco leather case. In protest, the jostled mirror slipped and fell flat with a soft smack, reflections vibrating chaotically with the movement of the table. Sherlock watched his own trembling likeness until the vibrations died off. He then snapped open the case, pushing aside some old keepsakes to lift out the false bottom. He muttered another curse. All that was left was 140 mg of benzoylmethlyecgonine, a razor blade, two sealed hypodermic syringes, and a half empty pack of fags.

With a sigh, he tipped the white powder out onto the mirror and began cutting it into two small lines - 70 mg to chase the cobwebs off and 70 mg to heighten his thought process.

As he pulled a crumpled pound note from his pocket, he noticed the knees of his trousers were badly scuffed. He rolled up the note into a slim tube and absently planned to ask Myc how to read the stains to determine if it was from falling or from kneeling perhaps?  ( _Wait, stop - redirect)_

Sherlock knew better than anyone that there were some trains of thoughts best not followed. Besides, it was just transport after all and therefore the state of his knees was of no consequence. He punctuated that thought with the insufflation of the first line.

He sniffed a few times to ensure the powder was evenly distributed through the mucous membranes of his nose and then tapped a cigarette out of the pack. With a purposeful click he lit it up and took a deep drag, blowing the grey smoke towards the nicotine stained ceiling.

As he finished the second line, the irony was not lost on him that unlike the other pharmacology graduate students, he had already conducted substantial research on the subject.

As things lay, his judicious use of the compounds he was studying would assist him in finishing his degree at least a full term before the rest of the dullards.

His superior knowledge of chemistry gained during his undergraduate studies enabled him to precisely calibrate doses of benzoylmethlyecgonine to maximize his ability to focus on his studies, and hydromorphone which enabled him to unwind when he needed to sleep. It even reduced the distracting pangs of loss over his ruptured friendship to a level that could be ignored.

He considered it a testament to his success that aside from the fogging of his memories (how _did_ his trousers get scuffed?) while he was under the influence of the hydromorphone, there had been no complications since the overdose his last year at secondary. That had been humiliating. Mycroft had found him strung out in the boathouse still in his school uniform the night after Redbeard had (stop _\- think of something else )_

He shook his head at the intrusive thoughts. Some days it seemed like he was constantly brushing away these dark musing only to have them fly back at him like startled sparrows. He promised himself that as soon as he had the time, he would figure out how to _delete_ these memories instead of just ‘shooing’ them away.

Unfortunately, now he was out of both benzoylmethlyecgonine and hydromorphone; he would have to talk to to Sebastian Wilkes. When his supplies were replenished, he could rehearse his proposal. His meeting was not until 9:00 the next day. That gave him at least 21 hours.

Sherlock made a little moue of distaste and, stubbing his cigarette out on an overflowing saucer, made his way to the cramped shower.

***

After he wasted the better part of the afternoon wandering around campus, Sherlock finally found Sebastian holding court in a grungy little coffee shop off of Market street.

On the pretence of hugging an old Uni mate, he leant in, passing him a wad of bills as he whispered his order into Sebastian’s ear.

The bastard made a big show of holding the hug for an uncomfortably long time.

“What are you doing here, doesn't Victor normally take care of you?” quipped Sebastian, the double entendre clear.

“Victor moved back to Norfolk at the end of term,” Sherlock replied crisply.

“Oh I forgot about your little lover’s quarrel,” he retorted, his tone making it clear that he had not forgotten.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He had hours of work to do and from the trembling knot rising in his stomach, he knew that unless he made a purchase he would be unable to focus.

“Victor and I were just friends and you know it. Now are you going to help me or not?”

“It’s been a busy week,” Sebastian smirked, “I only have Dillies left. If you want your coke, I’m sorry ‘benzoylmethlyecgonine’ as you like to call it, you will have to try elsewhere. I think Ferguson at that fag bar you go to on Newmarket Road sells.”

“Fine. Just the hydromorphone then.”

“Anything for you princess.”

Sherlock suppressed a shudder as Sebastian trailed a hand up his leg to tuck a  foil wrap of tablets into his front trouser pocket with a lewd wink.

“Maybe next time I will let you suck me off and I'll throw in a few pills for free. I hear if you close your eyes you can't even tell it's a bloke on your knob.”

Sherlock felt his face burning as Sebastian and his cronies cackled at his discomposure. Sherlock drew his tattered pride around him like a cloak and, teeth clenched, headed back out into a damp afternoon fog without deigning to respond.

“Ungrateful fucking poof,” someone called out after him.

Sherlock paused, a tirade of deductions regarding the prevalence of venomous homophobia in closeted gays was right on the tip of his tongue. With a supreme effort of will he stopped himself. For all of Sebastian’s myriad faults, his father worked for some posh bank and Seb always access to high quality product.

***

Instead of taking King Street past the Cambridge dormitories to The Bird in Hand, he went the long way round up Jesus Lane.

It wasn’t that he didn't want to pass Sidney Sussex College where he and Victor once shared a dorm; he just hadn’t had a chance to properly catalogue the vegetation that grew along side the longer path. _Who knows - he was smart enough, maybe he could start on the case studies for a PhD in botany in the gaps between his pharmacology work?_

From the main road it was another 20 minute walk to the bar. He got there just as the doors were opening at 17:00.

Blinking against the low light, he ordered a Vodka Redbull and seated himself at the bar in full view of the mirror so he could watch the crowd. He extracted a moleskine notebook from his pocket, hung up this tailored Burberry trench and settled down to wait. If Fergusson didn’t show up someone else was bound to be selling what he needed. At least in the meantime he could get started on his proposal.

As he was writing, he made sure to angle his head to show off his slender neck and trim waist to best advantage. If he played things right he wouldn’t need to pay for his drinks while he was waiting- that was a good thing as his funds were running perilously low. Somehow Myc, that meddling twat, had convinced Mummy to pay for his clothes and sundries directly, leaving far less money available for his ‘discretionary’ spending.

Three and a half hours and two Vodka Redbulls later he gave his work on the proposal up as a bad job. _He just couldn't focus._ There was too much information, each separate detail screaming for his attention. He needed the transcendental clarity that narcotics afforded him. It enabled him to laser focus his prodigious intellect. Without it, his train of thought was always on the cusp of growing too chaotic, leaping from one topic to another with little structure. Besides, his proposal deserved his full attention if he was to wow the supervisor. Sherlock promised himself that as soon as he was resupplied he would increase his dosage and make up for the lost time.

_Maybe a 7% intravenous dosage to ensure maximum efficiency?_

He tried to reserve injections for emergency situations, but his meeting was in less than 16 hours. _That was an emergency wasn’t it?_ If he failed to find a supervisor who was willing to work with him then his year would be jeopardy. As it was, he was the only Pharmacology student without one.

Tucking his notebook back in his coat, he leaned back and lit another cigarette. It was almost 20:30 and the crowd was starting to pick up. He tried to amuse himself by practicing his deductions on the other patrons.

The towheaded couple playing darts and snogging - _likely cousins and did not know it yet._

To their left, a brunet ( _owns two cats_ ) and a redhead ( _works in a bakery_ ) were sharing a pitcher of stout - _either breaking up or about to._

On the other side a trim blonde, _rhotic vowels indicating he was originally from West Hertfordshire_ , was telling a story about once seeing Ella Fitzgerald at the Royal Albert Hall in London. His audience, a younger man with a shaved head, was clearly feigning interest.

Sherlock’s interest was piqued when he saw the blonde wasn't drinking, but after a few minutes of observation he concluded he was likely not dealing. With a sigh he lit another cigarette and tried to flirt another drink out of the barkeep.

It was another hour and a quarter before Fergusson showed up, and by the time the circuitous small talk concluded and a glassine envelope handed over, Sherlock was fairly vibrating with tension.

With a curt thanks, he made his way straight to the loo and locked himself in one of the stalls. He didn’t like to use in public per se, but it made more sense to check the purity of his purchase while the dealer was still around. Or at least that's what he told himself. He extracted a small bump from the glassine envelope with one of his keys and brought it up to his nose, careful not to spill any of the powder.

He inhaled hard and imagined he could feel his pupils dilating as the drug entered his bloodstream, the aspirin taste bitter at the back of his mouth.  He did one more bump for good measure before carefully tucking the bag into his trouser pocket next to the foil wrap of hydromorphone tablets. If he left now he could be back at his flat by half ten and he could practice his proposal pitch for the rest of the night.

Sherlock made his way back to the bar to collect his coat and then headed out into the darkness.

He had only made it a block down the road when the noise of breaking glass caught his attention. His eyes flitted to the right as he took in the scene. A group of yobs had smashed a bottle over the side of a man’s head, slicing his scalp open to the bone. The biggest one, a thick set lad in Cambridge United colours, looked like he was about to give his victim a kicking while a smaller bloke in a leather coat and another man in a windcheater egged him on.

In retrospect, Sherlock had no idea what possessed him to interfere. He could have run back to the pub and fetched the bouncer, he could have dialled 999, he could have even turned a blind eye, but he did none of those things. Maybe it was the ugliness with Wilkes earlier, or maybe it was the cocaine sparking through his blood with each staccato beat of his heart. Regardless, he flew at the group of youths, filled with the fury of the righteous and the naiveté of youth. It never even crossed his mind that he could be hurt.  His fist connected with the jaw of the leader with a satisfying smack, the force of the blow spinning the larger man completely around.  
  
Sherlock spun lightly on his feet to face off with the second man. He did not even have time to turn around when he felt the thunk of a blade sliding in between his 8th and 9th ribs. He grunted in surprise, unable to process what had just happened.  Leather coat man took advantage of his momentary distraction by backhanding him across the face so hard that stars exploded in a constellation of pain across his vision. As he stumbled, he dimly heard the scuffling tread as the three youths took off running down the street and away.  
  
When his vision finally cleared, it took him a moment to understand that he was lying flat on his back in the cold gravel, a blurry figure leaning over him and blocking out the nauseous yellow of the street lamp.  
  
The face resolved itself into the man from the pub. _The one from West Hertfordshire or was it Bedfordshire?_ It seemed important to know. _Or was it?_ He was having trouble keeping things straight in his mind, first and foremost why he was lying on the damp ground of an alley. _Probably had too much to drink. Mustn’t let Myc know. He would be so cross._     
  
The man rolled him over onto his side with a sigh of disgust. “Oi – why did you do it mate? I would’ve been fine.”  
  
Sherlock tried to respond. He wanted to point out that the man had certainly not looked fine. He’d seen the gleaming white of bone showing where the bottle had sliced through the thin skin of his temple. But that could not be right, the stranger’s head was bloodied but intact. Sherlock blinked hard, he tried to speak, but his tongue seemed too large for his mouth. The phrase acute cocaine intoxication came to mind before he realized that if anything was to be blamed, it was probably the fact that he was currently bleeding to death.  
  
“I’ve been stabbed,” Sherlock declared in an astounded voice. The strangeness of the man’s disappearing wound already slipping away from him in the numbing fog of blood loss.  
  
“I noticed mate,” the man replied dryly, breaking into his reverie.  
  
“I’m dying,” Sherlock added matter-of-factly.  
  
“Yup. But you’re not going to. Just doesn’t seem right to let a man die for trying to do the right thing does it?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t get a chance to reply to that. He was overcome by a fit of coughing, bringing up a splash of cherry red blood. There was no flutter of panic at the sight, only a sad acceptance. _This is even better than heroin for the anesthetizing of emotion,_ he thought idly to himself, marvelling at how calm he was. _Myc would have been so proud._

“Oi - stay with me mate” the man surged forwards, faster than Sherlock believed was possible. The word spun sickeningly as he was hoisted up over the stranger’s shoulder as though he was weightless. He was aware of a blur of movement, the impression of travelling incredibly fast and then everything went grey.

***

Sherlock was violently snapped back to consciousness by the sickening feeling of the knife being pulled out of his back. He glanced around muzzily, he was propped up against an old stone wall in an empty garden. The silvery light of the moon painted everything in stark shadows. He tried to say something about the in-advisability of removing a knife from a stab wound, but he could not find the breath. All he could do was stare as the stranger, eyes the blue of caesium flame, put his own wrist to his mouth and bit down _hard_. The man let out a muffled gasp and then, grasping Sherlock by the nape of the neck, pushed him towards his bleeding wrist.

“Drink,” he commanded.

When Sherlock made no move to comply, the man forced his head down onto the bloody wound. Sherlock tried to struggle, but he had no strength left. All he could do was cough and splutter as the hot blood ran into his mouth. It tasted like copper pennies, but with a flavour that bloomed on his tongue like a fine wine. Before he knew it, he was clutching the man’s arm to his chest, sucking and worrying at the wound.  The taste was… incomparable. The more he drank, the more the numbness in his back began to recede, replaced with a fiery vitality that spread from his throat through his chest, right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It was only when his cock began to swell and thicken in his trousers that he pulled off with a startled gasp. He recoiled, trying to scuttle away from the stranger so fast that he slammed into the garden wall behind him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“What.. what the?” he stuttered, so startled he could not even complete the thought.

“You have questions.”

“I was stabbed, I was... I was dying”

“I thought we already covered that,” the man replied with a twinkle in his eye, and not a small amount of _hunger._

_“What are you…?”_

“Oi mate, don't be dull. You know what I am. I reckon anyone born since Bram Stoker published his tell-all would know.”

“You’re a vampire,” Sherlock breathed, wonder and terror vying for dominance in his voice. “Will I become...like you?”

“Only if your heart stops in the next 24 hours. If you live through that, you'll be right as rain. The blood will just heal your wounds.”

“Just wounds?”

The man looked at him quizzically, so Sherlock continued, almost tripping over his words. “I mean if I had cystic fibrosis or cancer or chronic eczema would I be cured?”

The man looked at him askance for a second before bursting out into a surprisingly deep laugh. “Can't say anyone has ever asked me that before. Good question though. Sad to say no, the amount I gave you would just work on traumatic injuries. Tried to cure a prozzie of TB once, ended up turning her by accident. Turns out the amount of blood needed to cure an illness has the nasty side effect of stopping yer heart. Kind of defeats the purpose of healing, huh? Why? You dying of something else besides a terminal case of knife to the back?”

“No.”

“Well good, just look both ways before you cross the street eh mate? I have no interest in following a newborn around.”

Sherlock could think of nothing to say, so he just nodded mutely.

“Now one last thing friend, before we part ways - turnabout is fair play.”

Sherlock barely had the time to parse that when he was knocked flat on his back, the stranger climbing astride him and ripping open his coat. There was the feel of a wet tongue laving down his neck before sharp teeth sliced into his shoulder. The stranger took a deep draught of blood before hopping off of him with a cheeky wink and disappearing into the hedgerows.

Sherlock was left sitting on his arse in the damp grass, mouth full of questions, blood sluggishly dripping down his chest, and cock as hard as a bar of iron in his pants.

****

By the time Sherlock made it back to his flat, the manic energy in his blood had started to ebb. He back was aching and itching where his stab wound had been, and he had been erect for so long he was beginning to worry he was at risk of vascular damage.

He stripped off his bloody coat and clothes and flopped into his unmade bed, erection springing up obscenely against his stomach. It only took him four rough strokes before he was coming, cock spurting messily between his fingers. He wiped his soiled hand off on the sheets and rolled over with a groan. He was asleep in seconds.

***

Sherlock woke with a start, he had been asleep for almost ten hours. If he wanted to study his blood he was running out of time. Whatever he’d ingested would be fully out of his system in the next 12 to 14 hours. He had to hurry.

As he sadly did not have a phlebotomist kit in the flat he made do with a plain hypodermic needle. As he slid the point gingerly into his median cubital vein, he thanked his lucky stars he had a supply of ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid in the flat. Without it, his blood would clot before he could take a proper look at it under the microscope. Unfortunately, he only had five test tubes left and he did not want to risk leaving the flat to get more lest whatever compound was circulating in his blood become further metabolized.

He extracted enough blood to fill all five tubes and carefully stoppered each one. He extracted one last syringe of blood and set about preparing a set of slides.

***

It was 19 hours later when he finally looked up from his microscope and realized he had never made it to the interview...even worse, despite performing every test he could think of that was feasible to do in his home lab and several that were not, he’d accomplished nothing. He had completely used up four of the five vials and there was nothing special about the blood that he could see.

If not for the hole pierced through the back of his coat, and the healing puncture wounds on his shoulder, he would be tempted to conclude the whole thing had been no more than a bad trip precipitated by a tainted batch of cocaine.

## Montague Street, London, May 1st, 2002

Alone in his musty Montague Street flat, Sherlock carefully drew a 38% solution of saline and cocaine into a clean syringe. He carefully inspected his sinewy forearm, hunting for a section of vein not marred by scar tissue or puncture marks. When he identified a suitable spot he eased the needle in.  

As he depressed the plunger he felt a transcendental calm stealing over him. He sunk back against the wall with a sigh of satisfaction. Since his rustication from Cambridge for failing to submit an accepted thesis proposal, boredom had been slowly tearing him apart.

These stolen moments of chemical bliss were the only reprieve he could find.

As he felt the wave of euphoria rising gently, he fumbled in the morocco case for the remaining vial of blood. In the dim light it looked almost black.

Sherlock rolled it back and forth in his hand a few times. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it did not seem to warm to his body temperature.

If his suspicions were correct, then inside was a fate worse than death. He had barely survived the first 23 years of his life, the only bright spot being the knowledge that it would not last forever. He couldn't imagine being condemned to live and live and live, nothing would make it worth it.

Now dying, that was interesting...

After a long pause, he tucked the vial back into the case and replaced the false bottom.

On the top, he placed a battered leather dog collar and a yellowing photograph of three boys dressed as pirates, the youngest with his arms thrown around a grinning Irish Setter. Scrawled across the back in a woman’s careful handwriting was the inscription:

Fancy Dress Party - May Day 1985, left to right, Redbeard age 2, Sherlock age 7, Mycroft age 14, Sherrinford age 19.


	3. The Rising Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my betas SuperBlue and Friendofalfonso
> 
> If you are bored you can always check me out on Tumblr @ bronzedviolets.tumblr.com
> 
> Also - please note the change in rating.

## Knightsbridge, October 28th, 2011

Inside his five bedroom townhouse in Knightsbridge, Mycroft read and then re-read the crumpled note. It had been pressed into his hand like a blessing by a grubby looking member of Sherlock’s homeless network. To say that the contents were unexpected was an understatement of the highest degree.  
  
DCF - NIEK PV EW ULE ZVCMQHXOE EFEW DPUS, RTXRCIR KZVRWZ RIEWY EW FPEMHE LXOHRVG YSXSW.  
  
It was a simple Vigenère square cipher. He knew even before he began mentally substituting the letters what the cipher key was – Redbeard.

 “Myc- meet me at the Islington Boat Club, October twenty-ninth at eleven hundred hours.”

That was in less than sixteen hours. Mycroft stripped off his overcoat and scarf and hung them up on the antique coat rack ( _18th century,_ _£3,999 at Sotheby's auction house_ ). He was glad he’d waited until he was sequestered in the privacy of his own home before he read the note. He was not shaken but he was… perturbed? Perplexed? He wasn’t sure how to frame the feeling that was coiling low in his gut.   

He stood for a long moment on the chilled granite of the entryway before making his way into the drawing room. He’d paid a small fortune to have it decorated in the style of an 18th century Georgian townhouse, and the thoughtful luxury of each piece was calming. Mycroft sunk down onto the Chesterfield sofa and closed his eyes, absently rubbing the crumpled paper gently between his thumb and index finger.

It’d been ages since Sherlock had called him Myc ( _9 years, 5 months, 26 day_ s) and even longer since his brother had deigned to ask him for help. Because this is what it was, clearly…The Islington Boat Club was where Mycroft had taught Sherlock to row, as befit a proper pirate. It was the only thing he could think of to console him after they got the news that Sherrinford was not coming back, not for the school break, not ever.  
  
It had been a terrible summer. Mummy and Father had of course been devastated, lost in a fog of their own private grief and recrimination. They could not see that Sherlock was struggling. Their youngest was a boy who needed structure at the best of times. Suddenly, at the tender age of seven, he was faced with a family life that had become unmoored. All of the familiar routines and tasks were abandoned as their parents retreated into a private grief. Where before Mr and Mrs Holmes had always made time to fill his days with obtuse cryptograms and treasure hunts, now it was closed doors and muffled arguments. It seemed like only  Mycroft could see that bright mind turning on itself.

Sherlock had idealized Ford. They both had. Where Mycroft was a chubby teen, quiet and prone to introspection, Ford had dashing good looks, was funny, witty and universally loved by everyone that met him. For Sherlock, who struggled to make friends, who had knobbly knees and oversized feet, Ford was everything he wanted to be when he grew up.

Rowing lessons did not make up for the amputation of Ford from their family, but out on the Regent’s Canal with Redbeard crouched in the hull of their small craft, he could forget for a little while. They went out on the water almost every day that summer. Although they never made it as far as the Thames, they could pretend that one day they would - they would pack their things and their dog and paddle down the river to where it met the North Sea. From there, they would start their life as pirates.  Sherlock insisted their home base be Kristiansand as it had the largest zoo in Norway. Mycroft insisted Stavanger would be a better fit as Scandinavia’s leading food festival, the _Gladmat_ , was held there every year. In the spirited debates over the relative merits of each city, a wet dog barking his excited assent, it was almost easy to forget their mother was locked alone in the study crying, and their father was standing motionless in the garden, smoking cigarette after cigarette.  
  
Mycroft blinked hard twice, clearing his mind. Despite the attendant heartbreak, that summer did have a bright side. As he lost his puppy fat and grew callouses on his hands, he took the first step in becoming the person that he'd always wanted to be. He was finally someone who had power, if not to fix things, than at least to _control them_. Maybe he would never be loved like Ford, and he didn't have the looks that Sherlock was sure to grow into, but he was a genius in a world of goldfish and he needed to start taking advantage of it.

It was a double-edged sword though. When the summer came to an end and Mycroft returned to boarding school, it was another blow Sherlock had been ill-equipped to handle. Mycroft could only watch as the people they had been that summer receded further and further into the past.

Every time he found Sherlock passed out in an alley, or was called to collect him from the Met lock-up, it tasted like failure. No matter how old Sherlock got, he would always be that little boy with skinned knees and a sunburnt nose that his middle brother had been able to comfort.

That had not been the worst of it. Not by far. During his second day as the Director of Operations for MI5, a prematurely silver haired copper in the queue in front of him at Costa was telling a story to his partner about a pale curly haired man, half naked in Russell Square screaming about vampires to a trio of terrified shop keeps.

Mycroft had to be back in the office in less than 10 minutes for a meeting, but the square was just close enough to Sherlock’s Montague Street flat that it wouldn't beggar possibility that it was him. After an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation, he decided that when he got back to his desk he would send his assistant check it out. If he was called to task for sending his employees to attend to his personal business, he would deal with that later.

For years after, he could not think about the incident without shivering. He had been so close to dismissing the idea out of hand that it _could_ be Sherlock. He spent hours retracing his reasoning but was never able to pin-point the factor that made him decide to look into it. As it was, it was a miracle that Simon went when he did. Sherlock had collapsed about thirty seconds after his assistant arrived. The youngest Holmes went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance on the way to the Great Ormond Street Hospital and had to be revived.

Sherlock had always insisted it was an accidental drug overdose, but Mycroft was never sure whether he believed him.

It was Mycroft who had to call their parents and explain what happened. That was the year Mummy had taken the teaching position in Kyoto, and in her absence, father had gotten far too familiar with the local inn-keeper. When they received the news, his mother wept and his father had got very quiet. There were endless conference calls about how they could put their differences aside and come together to support their child better, as though love could fix whatever was broken inside of him.

In the end, it was Mycroft  who stepped in and arranged for Sherlock to stay at a discrete rehab centre in Cardiff.

The look of utter betrayal in Sherlock eyes when he was sent away said it all. Things had never been the same between them after that.

In his secret heart of hearts, and on long sleepless nights, he wondered if it had been the right thing to do, to make arrangements without talking to his brother first, without asking _how_ Sherlock wanted to be helped.  

The unsteady feeling inside him grew and he decided it was time for his monthly indulgence. One low-tar cigarette _(relative risk of myocardial infarction 2.10x with a confidence level of 95%)._ It was not the _pain au chocolate_ he wanted, but he would make do.

As he smoked, he focused on hardening his heart, tamping the messy feelings down under a smooth layer of ice. He had a meeting to prepare for and his brother needed him.

## Islington Boat Club, October 29th, 2011

When Sherlock met him in front of the rowing club, they made their way silently down to the dock and climbed aboard a small boat. As they rowed down the City Road Basin to the Regent’s canal, he explained his plan and Mycroft listened calmly.

All Sherlock had been able to come up with to survive Moriarty’s machinations and save his friends was an asinine trick involving a laundry truck and another one using baritsu. Mycroft bit down his criticism and instead added his ideas to cover all possible contingencies.

If it occurred to him that Sherlock would ask for help to save his friends but not himself, Mycroft did not mention it.

After three hours on the river, his shirt was soaked through with sweat, his hands had blistered, and they had twelve plans, each with their own code name. No matter what Moriarty did, Sherlock was leaving that roof alive _(confidence level 95%, a scared voice inside him murmured)._

## Baker Street, November 5th, 2011

John made his way down the stairs into the butter-coloured sunlight of their sitting room. Sherlock was already up and dressed and peering into his microscope. John stumbled past him to flip the kettle on before rummaging in the drawer for some paracetamol.

“Sore back _again_?” Sherlock intoned without looking up from the eyepiece.

“Not getting any younger mate, just wait until you’re almost forty.” John popped the lid on the bottle, swallowing two tablets dry with a grimace.

“I told you to get a new mattress John,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John let out a huff of exasperation, “some of us aren't made of money, Ta.”

This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. While John couldn’t help but be touched his flatmate had noticed his discomfort, he did not have the money for new sheets, let alone a replacement mattress.

They were spared any further discussion on the matter when the kettle clicked off and John busied himself with making their morning tea.

John plunked Sherlock's steaming cup next to him and waited until he had the first swallow before he tentatively reminded him of the day's plans.

“So...what time do we head over to your parent's place?”

Sherlock set his tea down in the saucer dramatically and groaned so low John wouldn’t have been surprised if the window panes had rattled.

“Mycroft is sending a car at 11:00. I have to stop by the lab at Bart’s to ask Molly something, but I will be back before then. Can you pack my suitcase?”

“Pack it yourself, you git,” John retorted, but Sherlock was already sweeping out of the room, throwing his coat on with a flourish.

“No time, John!” he shouted as he clattered down the stairs, tea abandoned on the worktop.

John muttered a few choice words under his breath before draining his cup. He consoled himself with the thought that if packing his things for him was the least he had to do to get Sherlock to cooperate, he could consider himself lucky.

At the end of the summer, Violet and Siger Holmes had finally sold their big house in Hampstead and moved to an old stone cottage in the charming little port town of Folkestone. Despite Sherlock’s near bout of hysterics when the visit was first proposed, he had finally agreed to go down for a Guy Fawkes Day family lunch provided that he and John could spend the afternoon with the Kent Police and a stack of cold cases. They would stay the night and head back to London in the morning. To John’s eternal amusement, Violet and her husband were leaving for a line dancing competition in Oklahoma the next day, followed by an month long tour through the mid-western United States. Unlike her misanthropic children, Violet was quite the social butterfly and had friends scattered across the country that she wanted to visit.

At first, John thought she orchestrated the visit because she wanted to see her youngest son before they left, but after the fifth or so mention he was beginning to believe it was just so they would take her aspidistras back to Baker street for safe keeping while they were away. Apparently the new neighbors, while perfectly capable of watching the cat, could not be trusted to keep a plant alive.

Whatever the motive, the opportunity to spend more time with someone who raised Mycroft and Sherlock was something John’s curiosity would not let him pass by.

Despite a dozen brief telephone conversations wIth Violet, he had only met the couple in person once, and then only for a moment as Sherlock hustled them out of the flat. He just couldn't reconcile how very _ordinary_ they were with how extraordinary their son was.

John would vehemently deny it if anyone asked, but he found pretty much everything about his lanky flatmate endlessly fascinating. It sounded so juvenile that it made him cringe inwardly when he thought about it, but he was completely besotted. He only hoped Sherlock hadn’t noticed and was not just politely ignoring it.

John was not gay, at least he didn't think he was. A quick fumble in the barracks after an IED detonated a little too close for comfort certainly didn't override twenty years of shagging girls. What happened in Kandahar had been nothing more than two blokes helping each other relieve stress. This, this was more…complicated. He genuinely cared for Sherlock and over time that had spilled over into the physical. There was just something about the man that made his heart pound and his mouth go dry.

He had almost been caught twice with ill-timed erections. Usually he could control it, but when Sherlock solved a case, John’s traitorous cock tested his willpower. The exact moment that everything fell into place and the detective’s mouth opened with a deep gasp, eyes shining, breath coming in quick pants, there was something so carnal about it, so _sensual,_ that John couldn’t help but respond. Later, when he was alone in his bedroom, he would replay the scene in his mind except this time they would be alone. He’d tell Sherlock how amazing - brilliant - _fantastic_ he was and watch his tailored trousers bulge as John’s words went straight to his cock. Then, he would bend Sherlock over the nearest table and roughly pull his slacks down, exposing the milky white skin of that plump arse. Somehow, Sherlock would already be prepared, hole loosened and slick with lubricant. John would undo his own flies and ease his cock out of his pants before slamming home into the tight heat. Usually by the time the fantasy got that far, John was coming, biting down hard on his own pillow to muffle the noise.

It was always hard to meet Sherlock's eyes the next day after these indulgences, but he just couldn't seem to stop.

Even if Sherlock was gay, which John was by no means sure of, he deserved someone who could match his intellect. He certainly deserved better than a broke, middle-aged man who would rather bury his confusing feelings with hushed middle of the night wanks than take a chance and be rejected.

One thing he was certain of was that Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him. They had the rest of their lives ahead of them and if things were to develop naturally that would be one thing, but he would not jeopardize their friendship because of some unrequited crush. Being friends would just have to be enough - he _would make it_ enough.

With a sigh, he headed into Sherlock’s room and began packing his suitcase.

***

As promised, Sherlock swanned back into the flat at exactly 10:55. John barely had time to pass him his suitcase before the hire car pulled up, honking his arrival.

The two of them piled into the back for the two hour drive to Folkestone. They had only been on the road for ten minutes when John noticed that Sherlock seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Usually he would be whispering his deductions about Mycroft’s drivers into his ear. Or, if he really wanted to be a prat, he would make outrageous deductions about Mycroft just loud enough to ensure the driver _could_ hear.  
  
“Why so glum? Molly wouldn’t let you take any bits home?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous John, Mummy would never let me bring samples her place.”  
  
“So what was it you were there for?”  
  
“Nothing important, there was just an old case I had to discuss with her.”  
  
“Which one? The Aluminium Crutch? The Six Thatchers?”  
  
Sherlock visibly cringed, before launching into a lengthy tirade over how John’s sensationalized blog titles undermined the _very serious_ science of deduction. John countered by proposing more and more ridiculous case names until they were both breathless with laughter. John didn’t notice that Sherlock hadn’t answered his question, and the rest of the trip passed in a companionable silence.  
  
***  
  
It was going on lunch time when the driver dropped them off in front of the Holmes’ tidy little cottage. Mrs Holmes flung the door open and enveloped her son in a floury hug, the rich scent of baking following her out into the chill air.  

The house was a cheerful place, bursting with colourful bric-a-brac and book shelves taking up every available nook and crany. A large framed map of Cornwall took pride of place over the settee where a crotchety looking old tom cat with a torn ear napped.

After taking their coats, she chivied them into the kitchen where a pot of soup was merrily bubbling away on the stove and a dozen tarts were cooling on a rack.

“Sherlock, John, I am so glad you could make it. Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes, I made a moroccan chickpea soup, mince tarts, fresh bread, and that tapenade pasta with runner beans you used to love. For pudding we have an almond and lemon mascarpone torte.”  
  
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before edging closer to where the mince tarts were cooling. “Where’s Mycroft?”  
  
“Myc cancelled at the last minute.” She tutted.  “Would you believe he tried to send his assistant in his place?”  
  
John chuckled. “I can’t imagine Anthea at a family luncheon.”  
  
“Who?” Mrs Holmes asked, looking genuinely puzzled.     

“Anthea, long dark hair, always on her blackberry?”

“Anthea _Messervy_ ?” Mrs Holmes laughed out loud. “Mycroft's secretary? Heavens no! What ever gave you that idea? _Simon_ is Mycroft’s secretary. He is the little ginger fellow with the glasses. _Anthea_ is the M15 liaison for the Investigatory Powers Tribunal!”

“What?” John spluttered. “Then why was she always following him around?”

Sherlock looked away guiltily.

“That?” She laughed. “She was investigating Mycroft over a public complaint regarding surveillance by Public bodies. _I know it was you that filed the complaint young man,”_ she added _sotto voce_ with a glare at her youngest son. “Myc invited her to follow him following Sherlock around for two weeks. As you can imagine she found the complaint unfounded.”

Sherlock did not even have the good grace to look chagrined, so she punctuated that pronouncement by giving him a quick swat on the bum with a tea towel before turning her attention back to John.

“Here you go dear, have a tart, you look like you’ve lost weight.”

“Thank you Mrs Holmes, Sherlock keeps me on my toes.” John replied graciously before biting into the flaky crust.

Mrs Holmes flipped her shawl dramatically over her shoulder with a huff that expressed her fond exasperation. “I can only imagine,” she retorted. “Why don’t the two of you go put your things in the guest room and then see if you can find Father. He is probably poking around in the yard. Tell him to wash up. Lunch is almost ready.”

“Yes Mummy,” replied Sherlock before snagging a tart on his way out of the kitchen. “Come along John.”

Later when John looked back on that day, it seemed like it was the last good afternoon they had, before they were drawn into the spiralling madness of the Moriarty case.

***

To John’s profound relief, the guest room had two twin beds, and neither Mr or Mrs Holmes felt the need to comment on or question the sleeping arrangements.

Lunch was a surprisingly relaxed affair, with excellent food and good conversation. Both Violet and Siger wanted to hear all about John but had tact enough not to probe too deeply on the circumstances surrounding his departure from the army. They also clearly adored their son, although John was a little surprised that they didn’t ask more questions about the consulting detective business.  

John got the impression they were a couple that loved deeply in the abstract but did not care for the practical details of their son’s life. On the other hand, maybe they followed the blog, or had hour long telephone conversations with Sherlock while John was working at the clinic. As he finished a piece of the superb torte, while sipping a glass of Dewar’s whiskey pressed into his hand by Siger, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was just him reading too much into the situation. His own late mother had excelled at the benign neglect of her two children. This was more due to circumstances (working three jobs to support the children after Hamish Watson ran off) than a personality defect. Nonetheless, it was the one thing that always got his back up. It genuinely irked him to think that Sherlock’s genius was not appreciated to the full extent that it deserved. Sherlock did not seem bothered at all by the lack of questions about his personal life, so John decided to put it out of his mind and enjoy the rest of the meal.

After lunch was finished, Sherlock and John made the long walk down to the surprisingly modern Kent Police station where a box of cold case files was waiting for them. John strongly suspected Mycroft had a hand in it, but what Sherlock must have promised him in return John had no idea.

The next six hours were a torturous parade of dull files and dreadful canteen tea, followed by a dazzling hour and a half of charging around the village in Sherlock’s wake, catching both a murderer and an extortionist.

John had completely forgotten the odd tone of the meal until Sherlock addressed it, as they made their slow walk through the twilight of the village lane back from the police station.

“It bothers you that they didn’t ask about me.” Sherlock’s deep voice was uncharacteristically thoughtful.

John thought for a second about denying it but then decided it wasn’t worth it. The sea breeze played with his hair as he thought how best to frame his thoughts.

“I know it’s none of my business, but it seems like they were happy to see you but they didn’t actually want to hear what you’d been up to.”

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face John, his face screwed up in a picture of confusion. “But you do… you care?”

“What kind of question is that Sherlock?” John sputtered, too surprised to be embarrassed. “Of course I care, you're my best friend!”

Sherlock, for his part, managed to look even more confused. “You see me as I am - an addict who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high, and you still consider me your best...friend?”

“Always Sherlock, I thought you knew...”

Sherlock was quiet for so long that John started to worry he’d somehow offended him, but Sherlock broke the silence with a gruff voice.

“I - thank you John. Me too.” He shook himself once as though to gather his thoughts and then started walking back toward the cottage.

As they continued on down the lane in silence, their hands bumped each other. John was seized with the mad impulse to clasp Sherlock’s hand in his, just to see what he would do. Would he shake off his grip in confusion, or would he accept it as the gift that it was?

John waited too long and the moment was gone, dissolving like a sugar cube into tea, still present, invisible, yet lingering on the tongue.

Cipher Key:


	4. The Calm Before the Storm

## Baker Street, November 13th, 2011 (one week before the fall)

John groaned as the diffuse sunlight filtering through his curtains woke him from a restless slumber. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and the ache in his back had spread from the lower lumbar region up to his left side.

He knew he should probably see a physiotherapist, but he kept putting it off. He had too many bad memories of the agonizing hours of treatment at the Defence Medicine Clinic in Birmingham. He wasn’t sure if he could endure that again. To be honest, it wasn’t the pain he was afraid of; it was the hopelessness. He’d known from the second he’d read his own chart ( _doctors do make the worst patients_ ) that there was a high risk he’d suffered permanent nerve damage to his left arm. Nonetheless, he’d stubbornly kept the embers of hope kindled inside of him. He’d convinced himself that if he gritted his teeth and diligently did his exercises, he would eventually watch his clumsy fingers grow dextrous once more. He hadn’t even let himself _consider_ the possibility that something had been lost that couldn’t be recovered.

As his reward after a gruelling three weeks of therapy, a solemn faced physio broke the news to him that not only was his career as a surgeon over, but his case worker was recommending he be invalided. That was the day his hand had started to tremble, and it hadn’t stopped until he found his way back to London’s battlefields with Sherlock.

John threw a dressing gown over his pajamas with a grimace. He shouldn’t be surprised that his back was acting up. He’d been warned that the extensive damage to the musculature of his shoulder could lead to chronic pain as other muscle groups overcompensated, but he would be damned if he let it slow him down. He had to be in top form to face the storm he _knew_ was coming. John decided that the next time he was at Bart’s he would ask Molly if she knew a massage therapist.  She seemed to him like the kind of woman who would.

That settled in his mind, he shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen to begin his daily ritual of tea making and hunting for paracetamol. The only difference was today Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John suppressed a pang of unease. Since Moriarty’s disappearance after his shocking acquittal, the tension in the air seemed to be growing. Worse, Sherlock seemed to sense it too. He’d even taken the unprecedented step of meeting up with his brother not once but twice. John could not even imagine the kind of pressure his friend must be under if talking to that prat seemed like a good solution.

As more time passed with no sign of Moriarty, John was left with the unpleasant sensation that a trap had been set and he and Sherlock were already snared but just didn’t know it. Somewhere in the dark the spider was waiting, watching as they became hopelessly tangled in his web, winding the strings tighter and tighter. One day, when John least expected it, the line would snap, sending sharp ends snapping back to slice across the life they’d built together.

He knew it wasn’t entirely rational, but whenever Sherlock was out, out of the flat or even out of earshot, John felt anxiety welling up inside him. It was like a clammy cold mist, coating his thoughts, and giving each day a greasy nauseous tint.  
  
John was not a stupid man, and, as unpalatable as the thought was, he knew in some ways Moriarty and Sherlock were alike.  If their roles were reversed, Sherlock wouldn’t be satisfied with simply having Moriarty killed. No – it would have to be something clever. It then stood to reason that when Moriarty finally made his move, it wasn’t likely to be something as simple as armed assault.  A bullet to the head was effective, but it wasn’t clever. That was both a source of comfort and a source of profound anxiety for John. While that meant Sherlock was unlikely to have his throat cut in the queue at the chippies, it made it that much more difficult to protect his best friend when he had no way of knowing what Moriarty’s next move would be.  
  
John couldn’t shake the childish conviction that if he could see Sherlock, he would somehow be able to forestall whatever calamity was coming. _Hold the lines, watch your back, no man left behind._  
  
John forced himself to unclench his jaw as he finished pouring himself a cuppa, and popped two slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster. _Sherlock would be back, he always came back._

When the bread was done toasting, he spread a thin layer of marmite on it and plopped himself into his armchair to eat. He was only able to eat one piece of toast before pushing his plate aside with a sigh. _He was getting almost as bad as Sherlock, living off of tea and adrenalin it seemed. But how could anyone be expected to eat when their stomach was a coiled mass of nerves?_

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He picked up his mobile from where it’d been charging on the worktop. _Maybe Sherlock had called?_ He hit the home key to wake up the phone, his heart in his throat.

_No new messages._

Almost against his will, he found himself thumbing a careful text to his missing flatmate. Sherlock was a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he just couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.  
  
_Where are you?_  
  
He was just about to hit send when he heard the jingle of keys in the front door and Sherlock’s measured tread up the steps. John quickly erased the message and dropped the phone back down on the coffee table like a guilty child, sending it spinning like a top.  
  
Sherlock strode into the room, the faint scent of cigarette smoke trailing behind him like a shadow. He glanced down at John, then at the half eaten toast, and then at the mobile still wobbling madly on the table.  
  
John sat there frozen, unsure what story he was telling with body. What secrets would his posture whisper to the genius? _I’m scared for you? I’m lonely? I miss you?_ John wasn’t sure what would be worse, and he bowed his head like a dog waiting for a blow.  
  
He was convinced Sherlock was going to take the piss out of him for being worried. The detective could be heartbreakingly callous when he plucked people’s truths out of the air around them.  
  
To John’s immense surprise, there was nothing but silence followed but a soft wumph of wool as Sherlock flung his coat down on his chair. John snapped his head up just in time to see Sherlock disappear into the bathroom, calling over his shoulder as he left.  
  
“I’m for the shower then bed, can you water Mummy’s Aspidistra?” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply, and the door closed behind him with a decisive click.  
  
***  
  
On the other side of the bathroom door, Sherlock stood gripping the sink with whitened knuckles, the tap running to mask his gulping breaths.  
  
What he’d seen in John’s face had almost undone him.  
  
This past month had started to show in the tired lines of John’s face and the pained set of his jaw, but it had been the look in his eyes before he glanced down that hurt the most. It said ‘I’m scared’ but all Sherlock could hear was ‘it’s your fault.’ For a vertiginous second he thought he was going to be sick. There was nothing more in this world that Sherlock wanted to do than to throw himself down at John’s feet; to lay his head down in his lap like a child and beg forgiveness. He should have known that Moriarty wouldn’t be content to play games. His hubris had led him to ignore the danger, and now the wolf was almost at the door. Moriarty had made himself very clear. Sherlock owed him a fall, and if he didn’t take one, John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson would face the consequences.

## Baker Street, November 20th, 2011 (seven hours before the fall)

At 7:28 the first rays of sun broke over the city he had loved for more than two decades, turning the sky gold and then a fiery orange which tempered into a dirty blue as clouds gathered. He had hoped for clear skies one last time, skies the blue of the ocean; instead they were the colour of ashes. He supposed it was fitting at least. In this life one rarely got what one wanted. He slowly stood up from where he was sitting, propped against one of the chimneys of 221B Baker Street. The warmth of the fire had long since fled, and the bricks were as cold as stone, only the memory of heat left. His joints creaked in the chill air of the morning, evidence of a body that wasn’t old but that was no longer young. He relished the feeling, gloried in it even. The knowledge that this might be the last time leant everything, even the stretching out of sore muscles, a gravitas that it had never had, and probably didn’t deserve.  When he was satisfied his muscles were warmed up enough, he nimbly climbed back out onto the fire escape and made his  way carefully down to the alley behind their flat. One way or another the battle with Moriarty was going to end tonight, and he would much prefer it wasn’t due to him slipping down his own stairs and breaking his neck.

***

Sherlock walked quietly back into the building and tiptoed back up the stairs to their flat. He was glad for his stealth when he eased open the door and caught sight of John fast asleep on the couch. John had been scouring the transcripts of Moriarty’s trial for possible clues to his whereabouts and had finally dozed off after hours of fruitless work. When Sherlock left, John had been more or less upright, legs open, and feet firmly planted on the ground, his head resting on his chest. A sentry on duty. Sometime during the night he’d curled up on his side, cheek resting on the arm of the sofa where Sherlock so often pillowed his own head. The pages of the transcript had slipped from his grip, resting on the ground around him like so many fallen birds.

Something about the sight of his friend asleep where he had lain made his heart clench painfully in his chest. It seemed like John was always asleep lately, or maybe he was just more apt to notice. Sherlock vaguely remembered John mentioning something about carrying on talking when he was away. _Maybe he had been talking to John when he was asleep?_ Sherlock made a mental note that if he survived the next 24 hours, he would investigate his flatmate’s sleeping habits and cross reference it with his perceptions.

As he silently collected the papers and set them back on the coffee table, he idly wondered if John was able to smell his shampoo. Would some fragrance of him imbued in the leather make his way into John’s dreams? He hoped so.

With one last backwards glance at his sleeping friend, he padded quietly to his room and eased the door shut, slipping the bolt for the first time since he moved in. He could not afford to be disturbed.

With John on the other side of a locked door, the space had taken on a hushed, almost funereal air. It seemed like the room itself was holding its breath.

With great care not to make any noise, he prised up the loose floorboard at the foot of his bed and set it aside. Inside was his morocco leather case, untouched since he secreted it there 659 days before - the day John moved in.

With the scent of apples lingering in his mind, he delicately removed the lid. On top of the false bottom lay the relics of his childhood; a collar from a dead dog, and a picture of a brother who might as well be dead.

Normally the sight of these objects was enough to send a sliver of pain through his chest, as though his very heart lay pinned to the box in clumsy vivisection. Not anymore, now his heart lay asleep on the couch in the next room, and Sherlock would do anything, _anything_ , to see it didn’t come to harm.

He knew that Mycroft had put in place every safeguard humanly possible to ensure they won the coming war. Sherlock estimated that there was at least a 98% chance that the contingency plans would be sufficient, nonetheless, he couldn’t risk John’s life on the 2% chance that things went wrong.

Without a second glance, Sherlock placed his keepsakes in a tidy pile on his bed and removed the false bottom of the case. The vial was still there, waiting like a serpent in the corner of the box, alongside a generous bag of cocaine and two unopened hypodermics still in their hermetically sealed wraps.

As he stripped open the packaged syringe, the tearing plastic seemed obscenely loud. He prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in that John wouldn’t hear it and wake. Another part of him fervently wished that John _would_ hear, that he would smash through the door like an avenging angel and stop this madness.

John slept on.

Sherlock took a shaky breath, uncomfortably aware of his pulse beating in his temples, and picked up the vial.

The liquid inside was almost black as he shifted the vial, the crimson undertones shone through like the plumage of a strange bird. Like an automaton he rolled up his sleeves and examined the ruins of the veins in the crooks of his elbows. He would need a tourniquet. Sherlock hesitated a moment before picking up the leather collar and wrapping it around his left arm. This was one last journey his faithful companion could make with him. He found the thought strangely comforting.

As he waited for his veins to swell, he held the vial in his left hand and deftly slipped the needle through the rubber seal. He then pulled back on the plunger one-handed and drew the full 11 ccs of liquid up into the syringe. The blood was just as viscous as the day he had drawn it from his own vein.

For a moment he was seized with doubt. Wouldn't it be kinder perhaps to put the syringe down and fill up a second one of cocaine? There was enough left to mix a 40% solution. That would surely be enough to stop his heart after such a long period of abstinence? Would John think it was an accident? _Not sure_. The only person he could ask would be John, which he couldn’t do for obvious reasons.

If he died alone in his room of a self inflicted drug overdose would Moriarty see it as a victory? Or would it be a hollow crown? Would he take his revenge in blood on those Sherlock cared for to punish him for cheating him of his victory?

He didn’t know and couldn't take that chance, not when it was John’s life in the balance.

 _John_.

He held the name in his mouth as he eased the tip of the needle into the waiting vein. As he slowly depressed the plunger and felt the cold spreading towards his heart, he finally allowed himself to imagine what John's lips would taste like if he pressed a soft kiss upon them. They tasted of tea and a question he’d never dared to ask.

## Diogenes Club, November 20th, 2011 (30 minutes before the fall)

Mycroft strode into his office at the Diogenes, spine straight and bearing proud, hung up his Crombie wool coat, and carefully closed the door behind him. He had taken extra care with his clothes today, choosing a light grey Prince of Wales three piece suit from Paul Smith, matched with his vintage Woodford pocket watch and a Gieves and Hawkes tie in a navy that he fancied made his eyes look darker.

As James Laver said ‘Clothes are inevitable.  They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.’ Mycroft liked to think that when people saw the immaculate drape of his trousers or the fine cut of his waistcoat, they wouldn’t see money or a fine tailor, they would see past it to the crystal cut edges of a razor sharp mind, icy and completely controlled. For the most part they did.

He walked back to his coat and extracted two mobile telephones from the pockets, a personal mobile and a blackberry. He lined them up carefully on the glossy wood of the table. He then walked slowly over to the dry bar in the corner and carefully poured himself an ounce and a half of Old Pulteney single malt. Personally he preferred Dewar’s White Label, but the Old Pulteney was widely considered one of the world’s best single malt whiskeys.

There was a discreet tap at the door before his assistant pushed it open and walked in to sit down unobtrusively in the corner, waiting for his orders. If he thought it odd that his boss was imbibing so early in the afternoon, he was far too well bred to say anything.

At exactly 14:10, the personal mobile buzzed, indicating a text message had been received. Mycroft keyed in his passcode to read the message. He then glanced up at his assistant. “Simon, stand-up operation Lazarus.”

“Yes sir. I’ll advise the team to deploy the cushion now.”

The slight ginger haired man began rapidly tapping away on his blackberry as Mycroft watched impartially from the other side of the gleaming desk.  

Eleven minutes later, Simon looked up from his furious typing. “Sir, operation Lazarus is ready for launch.”

“Thank you Simon, that will be all.” Mycroft dismissed him with a sombre nod and then picked up the mobile and keyed in the last message he would ever send to his brother.

_Lazarus is a go_

 ***


	5. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not the fall that kills you- it’s the landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented Johix


	6. After the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my amazing beta SuperBlue and my Britpicker the wonderful Megabat
> 
> I am on Tumblr @ bronzedviolets.tumblr.com
> 
> Source image courtesy of Pexels, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License

# November 20th, 2011 (evening) - Barts Hospital

John woke up slowly. He could hear voices around him before his vision cleared and he sat up cautiously, looking around to orient himself. He was in a private room in the hospital. The door was open but someone had dimmed the lights and pulled the faded curtains closed around his bed. It was like being underwater. He could hear the bustle of nurses and orderlies moving around in the hall. A further look confirmed that someone had removed his coat and hooked him up to a saline drip, the IV stand a skeletal figure looming over him like a sunken ship.

For a brief second he didn’t know why he was there. He was poised weightless between the past and the present. Like all good things in his life so far, this passed. The weight of what had transpired blew through his conscious mind like the explosive decompression of a ship’s hull, dark water rushing in to choke him. _Sherlock._ He managed a strangled shout, nothing more than a bark of alarm, before the sound was cut off as his gorge rose in his throat. He was barely able to lean over in time, the contents of his stomach scalding his throat as he vomited off of the bed onto the tiled floor. A nurse appeared at his side with a pastel blue kidney dish. She couldn’t have been more than 23 years old, with big limpid green eyes and red curls drawn back from her face in a tight ponytail. She held the basin under his head, her other hand a firm pressure on his back as John vomited. He vomited for ages, until even the memory of food was purged. When he was done she quietly handed him a wet flannel to wipe his face.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Her voice hovered between compassionate and horrified.

For one vertiginous second John almost said ‘Sherlock’ before snapping his mouth shut and shaking his head firmly ‘no.’

“All right love, the doctor will be in to see you in a minute.”

With that she bustled out of the room to dispose of the basin, her copper pony tail swinging behind her in an obscenely cheerful manner. John knew in an instant that she was one of those people who, through the vagaries of fate, had managed to live a life free of tragedy. He was sure she'd had her share of bad luck, relationships gone sour, not picked by her first choice of Uni, but nothing had touched her, not in the way life had carved him up. She looked at him and she felt bad that he was suffering, but she didn’t _understand_.

At that very second John hated her; he hated her like he had never hated anyone before. She could just walk out of this room with her perfect skin, and her perfect life, while he had to stay here with his broken body and his broken heart. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, he wanted to weep, to rend his hair, and instead he was frozen immobile on the bed. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t move. If he acknowledged the situation in any way it would make it real.  He just sat on the bed and stared at the pool of vomitus on the ground until a cleaner bustled in and expertly mopped up the spill. Then John stared at the ground. His rage was gone as fast as it had appeared, leaving him… empty.

He was suspended in a zen-like state of non-being when his concentration on not thinking _anything_ was broken by the clearing of a throat.

It was an older man, probably in his late 50’s, with closely cropped grey hair and skin so dark it shone with blue highlights. His name tag identified him as Dr Calixte, the senior physician on duty.  He settled himself down on the chair next to the bed, resting his clipboard on his knees.  

“Dr Watson, your chart says you were given a sedative. How are you feeling? Any headache, blurred vision?” Dr Calixte’s voice was pitched low, a West Country accent blunted by time and distance.  

John focussed on the cadence and rhythm of his voice, the meaning behind the words distant and unfocussed.

“Are you from Cornwall or Dorset?”  John asked quietly.  

“Cornwall,” the doctor replied cautiously, deciding the best course of action would be to ignore the non sequitur and plow forwards. “Are you feeling alright? The nurse mentioned that you vomited?”

“I’m fine, I’ve just had a bit of a shock. When can I go home?”

The doctor winced slightly, buying himself time by adjusting the stethoscope around his neck. “Well you see Dr Watson, you took a bit longer than what we expected for you to wake up, so we drew some blood and are running some tests. We are recommending that you stay overnight if you don’t mind. We can have a grief counsellor by later if you would like,” he added gently.

John continued as though he hadn't spoken. “I couldn’t tell from your accent, I just knew it was south west England. I would have guessed Wiltshire, but that’s just because one of my rugby mates grew up there. Sherlock would’ve been able to tell but I can’t.”

The doctor scrubbed his hand through his short hair, unsure how to respond to that. He was spared when the redheaded nurse popped her head back into the room “Excuse me, there is a Detective here, he says he needs to speak to Dr Watson, he says it’s urgent.”

“Not now, Chantal, I really don’t think Dr Watson is feeling up to it, would you-”

“Tell him to come in,” John interrupted brusquely.

“Dr Watson, I have to disagree, I-”

“Send him in.” John’s voice was vibrating with authority and tension.

Dr Calixte gave him once last searching look, the professional mask slipping as he gathered up his clipboard. “Before I go, I would like to say I’m terribly sorry for your loss, my partner Myles and I were big fans of your blog.” He shook his head, and the sadness that was there a second ago was gone and he was all business once again. “Chantal - I will be back to check on Dr Watson in a few hours – please let me know if anything changes.”

John didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as Lestrade burst into the room.

“Jesus Christ John, mate, I'm so sorry. I mean, fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” Greg shifted from foot to foot in an agony of indecision, no trace of the confident copper John had gotten to know.

“Tell me you caught the fucker who shot him Greg. Can you tell me that?”

Greg didn’t answer right away, instead he took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry John, MI5 stormed the roof, but there was no one up there. Sh-” Greg stopped and cleared his throat to fight against his cracking voice. “Sherlock, umm, preliminary forensics show that he was killed on the rooftop. Moriarty and the other man-”

“Moran, Moriarty called him Moran,” John interrupted.

“Thanks, Moriarty and Moran, no one knows what happened to them. The security cameras in all of the stairwells of the Pathology building show nothing but static for 20 minutes before and after the - the fall. John, I have to ask you. Do you know what Sherlock was doing on the roof?”

John made a noncommittal noise, brushing the question aside. “So what you’re saying is they're in the wind? You have no sodding idea where they are do you?” His eyes burned and his throat was dry but his voice was strong and harsh.

Greg recoiled slightly before finding his voice. “We’ll find them John, don’t worry. I know our Sherlock didn’t always get on with the lads, but he was one of us. We're going to find the bastard.”

John didn’t have the energy left to do anything but nod mechanically. Greg stood there awkwardly for a second, looking like he was going to try and hug him, but decided against it. “Ok mate, I have a few more people I need to talk to, but I will be back in a bit to check on you, is that alright?”

“Mrs Hudson.”

“I beg your pardon?” Greg leaned forward quizzically.

“Can you tell Mrs Hudson about what happened? I - I don’t think I can.” John clenched and unclenched his fist as he spoke, looking everywhere but at Greg.

“Of course mate, of course. You just sit tight and I’ll take care of it.” With that solemn promise made, Greg excused himself, leaving John alone.

***

John waited until Greg’s footsteps receded down the hallway before, pushing himself slowly to his feet. He looked down at the IV and only hesitated for a moment before pulling it out, holding a tissue from the bedside table over the puncture to staunch the sluggish bleeding. After that, it was only the work of a few minutes to find his coat and scarf. They had been carefully wrapped in a bag and tucked in the cabinet next to the bed. He threw his coat on, doing his utmost to avoid looking at the rusty smudges on the fabric.  After a quick check of his pockets to make sure he still had his wallet, he walked up to the door and pulled back the curtain to peer out. Nurse Chantal was deep in conversation with another nurse. John slipped into the hallway like a ghost and headed off down the ward. No one tried to stop him. He walked all the way to the end of the hallway before ducking into a stairwell and taking the steps down to ground level, and out into the cool air of the evening.

It looked like an entirely different world than the one he had left behind and in the most important way it was. The burning feeling rose once more in his throat, prickling at his eyes, but John choked it back down. He knew that he probably should have stayed in the hospital but he figured Greg or maybe Mycroft would take care of it. Didn’t really matter did it? Keeping his head down, he walked the six minutes to the Barbican underground station and after flashing his Oyster card at the turnstile waited for the train. It was the easiest thing to do to keep standing there. Train after train pulled up at the platform, people got on, people got off, and John just sat and waited. He wasn’t sure what for. All he knew was that he was not ready, not ready to see someone who knew him, not ready to hear Mrs Hudson cry, and not ready to live in a world without Sherlock. He waited there at the train station for an hour, then two then three. It was finally his aching back that prompted him to stand up on creaking knees and stumble towards the next train. He rode the Victoria line back to the Baker street station, and walked the two blocks back to the flat. With the air of a man condemned, he let himself into to 221B, bracing himself for Mrs Hudson and the onslaught of her grief. Instead he found a note written in Lestrade’s blocky printing.

_John, Mrs Hudson was in a terrible state. I am taking her to her sister’s. Call me when you get home._

John couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. A part of him knew that grief shared was grief halved, but he couldn’t bear the thought of sharing even one drop of his pain. It was all he had left of his life with that brilliant madman; it was the only thing that was holding him together.

With a pained breath huffed out through his teeth, John climbed the seventeen steps up to the flat, and let himself into the darkened sitting room. Without flicking on the light he made his limping way up the stairs to his bedroom. The door was ajar and an anaemic moon illuminated the room within. What John saw caused the breath to punch from his lungs as he fell heavily to his knees, completely and utterly undone. His shabby old bed was gone and in its place, a sleek new mattress nestled under a polished oak headboard. It was quality craftsmanship, nothing too flashy, but exactly what John would have bought for himself if he had £3000 pounds to spare.

John hadn't cried in years. He hadn’t cried in the military hospital when he woke up burning with fever, shoulder shattered and Private Anesko’s blood still trapped under his fingernails. He didn’t cry in University when his residence advisor took him aside to tell him that his mother was dead, an aneurysm while she was doing her shopping. He hadn't cried since he was nine years old and he came home from rugby to find that Hamish Watson had tidily packed his clothes in a bag, cleared out the family bank account and left his wife and children behind, leaving nothing but grief and a stack of divorce papers behind him.

Sherlock had bought him a new bed, and now he was dead and John would never be able to thank him. He would never be able to tell him _anything,_ ever again. John sat there in the doorway and cried. He wept for the man he had been and the man Sherlock never got to be. Most of all he wept for a question left unasked.

***

John sat in the doorway and cried until there was nothing left, nothing left of him, nothing left of the man he had been. When the sun finally rose in the east, the cancerous yellow of a burning cigarette, he slowly stood up and walked to the kitchen and the rarely used handset. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. Maybe he didn't have the kind of contacts needed to find Moriarty but he knew a military man when he saw him. He was going to find Moran, and heaven help the man when he did.


End file.
